


Date Night

by lyricalsoul



Series: How I Married Mycroft [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Date Night, Established Relationship, M/M, Snogging, based on tumblr picture, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 18:17:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1992939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyricalsoul/pseuds/lyricalsoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on this picture someone directed me to on Tumblr: http://weekendship.tumblr.com/post/83364874024/one-of-my-head-canon-i-have-for-mystrade-is-that. </p><p>Mycroft and Greg have a quiet night in. In which there are understandings that work can't always be left at work, and that a cuddle will sometimes do over full-blown sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Date Night

**Author's Note:**

> This doesn't belong to any particular universe, and is basically an exercise to see if I can still write, lol. Any mistakes are mine, and mine alone. Enjoy. 
> 
> For Edenlost, who is ever encouraging and unfailing in her friendship. Happy (late) friendship anniversary.

I walk into the lounge, amused to find Mycroft sitting on the sofa, clad in his dressing gown, trousers, and shirt, like an old film idol. Down to the leather slippers on his feet. “You look like a sexy Cary Grant.”

“Cary Grant was sexy, so you haven’t really complimented me.”

“It’s always semantics with you,” I complain. “Sexier Cary Grant, then.”

“Better.” He sets his phone aside, and makes room on the table for the armload of files and bag of Chinese food I’m struggling with. “I’ll get the plates.” He stands, and brushes past me, but not before giving me a cheeky pat on the arse.

“You can’t just eat out of the carton like normal people?” I call out, flexing my fingers in relief. “I’ve got chopsticks.”

“As do I.” He sets the plates, which are black with red and gold trim – because why wouldn’t a takeaway dinner have a theme – on the coffee table, followed by an ice cold bottle of Kingway for me, and a glass of wine for him. He smiles at me, and places two pairs of black lacquered chopsticks on the red napkins.

“What if I’d brought a curry?”

“It’s Friday,” he says as if that explains everything. “Go get changed. I’ll lay it out.”

I smile at the fondness behind that tone. “Right,” I say, and head for the bedroom to get out of my suit.

***

After a quick wash up, and a change into comfy track pants and my favourite t-shirt (says The Clash on the front, concert dates on the back – gift from my sister), I go back to the lounge. Thankfully, by ‘lay it out’, Mycroft has only dished up the food on to the plates, and opened my beer. Okay, and stacked my files according to colour and what he’s deduced as order of importance. ‘Laying it out’ used to result in serving platters, vintage wine, placemats at the formal dining table, and other bits of fanciness (there was a butler once), but he’s come a long since the early days of our relationship.

“God, I’m starved.” I drop down next to him on the sofa, press a kiss to his cheek, and take up my plate. “Lunch time came and went, with me only having a packet of crisps and a fizzy drink.”

“Poor you.” He settles back with his plate – it took me ages to get him to relax enough to eat away from the table – and eyes the food appreciatively. “Thank you for remembering my order.”

“It was just the one time, Mycroft,” I say, fighting with the chopsticks to wrestle the noodles into my mouth. “It’s etched in my head – crispy duck, steamed rice, veg stir fry, extra hot mustard, and chili sauce. I still say I was given the wrong bag.”

“That all your favourites were there says otherwise.” He plucks a prawn from my plate with a dexterity I only wish I had, and smirks at me. “I did appreciate your apology, though.”

I watch as he chews and swallows the prawn, and feel a shiver of wanting crawl up my spine. “Who wouldn’t? These lips of mine are lethal.”

“It’s why I married you, of course.” He laughs. “Well, that and your quite delectable arse.”

“I knew it,” I laugh. And laugh more when the food falls off my chopsticks and onto the table. “Damn it.”

Mycroft produces a fork with a flourish. “You’ll get the hang of it. Eventually.”

“If your chopsticks weren’t so fancy,” I defend, tossing the black lacquered chopsticks aside.

“Oh, of course. Horrid of me.” Mycroft shakes his head and starts in on his food again. After a few minutes, he says, “Have you had any luck in obtaining the duck recipe from Mr. Lee? I do not understand why his duck is superior to that from more ah, prestigious places.”

“Yeah… remember when I told you that? You sniffed at me, and insisted that we get Chinese from some ritzy place that the Queen likes. Horrid.”

“You promised you wouldn’t mention that again.”

I snag a piece of duck and pop it in my mouth. “I love being right. Especially over the Queen.”

“You’ll never be knighted with that attitude.” He sips at his wine, and smiles. “And you are aware of my…fascination with medals and ceremonies.”

The emphasis on ‘fascination’ shoots straight below the belt, as was his intention. The first time he saw me in my ceremonial uniform, we didn’t leave the bedroom for hours. I blush at the memory of having all his intense focus directed at me, but am saved from answering (or acting) by the ringing of my mobile. “Damn it.” I set my plate aside, and take up the phone with an apologetic look at Mycroft. “Lestrade.”

 _“Sorry to bother, sir,”_ Sally says, not sounding sorry at all, _“but I’ve got additional information on the Scarletti case, and you’ve got the files.”_

“You couldn’t have sent an email? Or waited until Monday?”

_“The case isn’t logged yet.”_

“Fine, fine.” Before I can start looking for a biro, Mycroft is handing me his fancy pen, a sheet of paper, and the file in question. “Thanks,” I mouth, and turn my attention back to the phone. “Go on, then, Sal, and hurry up about it. You’re interrupting my date.”

_“You’re on a date? Does your fancy man husband know?”_

“Just spill, Sally, so I can get back to it.”

_“I’m not going to be reassigned to some backwater beat because you’ve cheated on your powerful husband…”_

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate your strong moral compass, Sal, but before you spin this into something it’s not, I’m on a date with my powerful husband. Now, I could be the one to loan you out to Dimmock for a month or so…?”

 _“I’ll get on with it, then,”_ she says, this time sounding apologetic.

“Right.”

As she talks, I scribble notes on the paper Mycroft gave me, and in the margins of the case file, all while shoveling in as much chow mein, fried rice, and sweet and sour prawns as I can. When she’s done – a whopping ten minutes later – I end the call, and smile at Mycroft. “Sorry, love.”

“You only call me that when you feel exceptionally guilty,” he says, setting his half-empty plate back on the table. “No need to have such feelings, as I have said many, many times before. We don’t have traditional jobs, and if anyone understands that work never really stops, it is the two of us.”

“I know,” I sigh, and set my plate aside. “It’s just…” My mobile pings. Fucking text. I look at it, and groan. “Sherlock.”

“Answer him, or he’ll show up.” He starts clearing the table. “Another beer?”

“Just the one tonight.” I drain the remains of the bottle, set it aside, then stand and move up behind him as he bends to get the food. “All this temptation wriggling about, I’m thinking that a bit of a snog would help me focus.”

“Gregory…” he says in that long-suffering way of his. But he straightens, and turns to face me. “You are quite incorrigible.”

“I am.” I take his face in both hands, and press my lips to his. “And you like it,” I murmur against his lips.

“Yes.” His soft lips part as my phone trills again. “He won’t stop.”

“I know, so let’s get on with it.” I tug him closer, wrapping my arms around his sexy, trim waist, and lick at his bottom lip. Chili sauce, which I am trying to get used to, but it’s awful, and while it’s not going to stop me from kissing him, we’re going to have to come to an agreement about it on date nights. I back him up, until his calves hit the sofa, and push gently.

With a sigh, Mycroft falls back on the sofa in an undignified heap. “Have your wicked way with me, then.”

I kneel between his long legs, and smile down at him. “You’re ridiculously gorgeous, you know?”

“I will admit that you are ridiculously blinded by lust,” he counters, and pulls me flush against him. “I would be content to lie here with you just like this. If it’s not inconvenient, of course.”

“Of course not.” I kiss him softly, and lie there, breathing and in out, basking in the warmth of his body. Admittedly, it took a while for me not to take such a thing personally. Not that Mycroft doesn’t enjoy sex, and want to have it often; it’s just that he doesn’t like to have sex if he’s got work on. According to him, an orgasm destroys brain cells, and muddles his mind, making it hard to focus.

He says he didn’t have sex all that often before we got together (And by together, I mean that time I pretended to be his boyfriend on Valentine's Day so his mum wouldn't set him up on a date, and we ended up in bed at The Ritz). And since our marriage vows included the words “not equal giving, but equal sacrifice,” I have to respect that he feels so strongly about it, even if I think it may or may not be rubbish. Knowing that he basically runs the British government, I try to be as understanding as I can about it, since it would be embarrassing if I were the cause of some war because I insisted on sucking him off. I’m pleased that he still asks, though I’m not sure what he’d do if I said no. “Are you back to work some time tonight?”

“Hm…” He buries his face in the crook of my neck and breathes in deeply. “Your scent is very calming to me.”

“Yeah? What do I smell like?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“Probably.” No sense in being dishonest.

“You smell like… sheets that have been drying in the sunshine. I’m not sure how the combination of your hair products, body wash and cologne converged to make that particular scent, and I could be projecting, but that’s what you smell like to me.”

I chuckle, and nip at his ear. “Is that good?”

“Mummy always insisted that the bedding be dried in the sun in summer. One of my chores was to help her hang them on the line, and bring them in when they were done. The sight of the sheets billowing in the wind, combined with the clean scent was relaxing. I was often found with a book, lying in the grass beneath the sheets, waiting for them to dry. So, yes it is a good thing, though I can’t imagine doing such a thing now.”

I have no idea what to say to that, so I just nod.

“And your skin is soft.” His hands are under my t-shirt, smoothing along the contours of my back. “It wasn’t always. I am happy to see that my so-called posh products are working wonders on you.” His nails scratch me gently, up, then down. He deftly avoids any of the spots he knows to be in my erogenous zone, since we’ve already decided that sex is off the table.

“Your hands feel nice,” I say, delighting in the feel of them – so soft and cool – all over my back. “If you’re ever out of a job, you’d make an excellent masseuse.”

“Touching other people? The horror.” His phone vibrates on the table, and he removes his hands from my back with a sigh. “I’m certain Sherlock is now texting me, and I’m sure he’s making snide insinuations about our sexual practices. Please answer so that he can advise you who murdered Scarletti.”

With a groan, I sit up, and grab my mobile. “If he knows, then you know. You could have saved me all that gabbing from Sally.”

“You’ve forbidden me from assisting when you bring work home.”

“Right, because you glanced at the sheet with the victim’s address, and deduced the crime, and the items stolen on a case I’d been working for a month. In ten minutes.”

“I was having an off day.” Like a true Holmes, Mycroft does not believe in false modesty. But he manages to grimace when he realises I wasn’t being complimentary. “Ah. Well, it did free you up for more a more relaxing evening…”

“Lucky you.” I look at my phone.

**If you can tear yourself away from my brother, I have some insight into the Scarletti case. – SH**

I sigh, and read the next.

**Are you shagging? Must you? Scarletti case is more important. – SH**

“Nosy git,” I remark.

“Quite,” Mycroft agrees.

**I am bored, Gunther. You know what that means. – SH**

**Bored. Please help me. John is on a date. – SH**

**I’m sorry for whatever I did to upset you. – SH**

**Tell Mycroft I’m going to tell Mummy the truth about her hosiery. – SH**

“Something about your mum’s hosiery and the truth. Hmm…anything you want to tell me?”

“Absolutely not.” His tone is firm. Then, he’s off the sofa, gathering the plates and empty bottles on a tray, and taking them to the kitchen. “Tea?” he asks from the kitchen doorway.

“Please. Any of that one your mum sent?” I don’t know where she got it, but she’s ruined me with this special blend of hers that includes almonds, chocolate and black tea. I won’t say that I’m addicted, but it’s close.

“Coming right up, sir,” he mocks in a tone that sounds uncannily like Stephen Fry’s Jeeves.

I take the time to send a text to Sherlock:

**Come by my office first thing and we’ll go over it the evidence. – GL**

**And it’s Greg for the millionth time. – Greg Lestrade**

“What a pest.” I move the Scarletti file aside, and open the next one.

***

An hour or so later, I sigh, and frown at the papers spread out on the table. Nothing makes sense, my head is aching, I’ve chewed my pen cap flat, and my tea has gone cold.

To my delight, Mycroft is still sat beside me, long legs crossed, one hand working his phone, the other resting on my hip.

“You should take a break,” he says, not looking up. “Your eyes are very dry, and you’ll have a headache soon.”

“Yeah,” I say, tossing the pen down, and settling back against the cushions. “Are you all sorted?”

“Unfortunately, I’m going to have to go to the office to settle this… nonsense. What time are you going to the Yard?”

“Early, since I’m sure Sherlock will be raring to go at the crack of dawn.”

“Most certainly.”

“I’d better to lots of sleep then.” I stretch and yawn loudly. “Sorry, I’m just – “ I look up to see Mycroft staring at me intently. “What?”

“You.”

“What about me?”

“Very distracting,” he says with frown. “Stretching out, showing that golden skin under your shirt – just a flash, mind you – but it was enough to undo all my good intentions.”

I smile. “And what were those good intentions?”

“To see you tomorrow after I’d resolved the crisis at work. Perhaps an early supper, a bit of wine, some music, then bed.”

“But…?”

“Undone.” He turns and gathers me in his arms. “Utterly.”

As much as I want to melt into him, I’m not sure it’s a good idea, seeing as how he’s got to work. “Mycroft…”

“Shh…” He nips at my ear, and holds me tighter. “Just let me…”

“Yeah, all right.” Not sure where he’s going with this, but the way he’s holding me has really got me going. “Remember you have to work.”

“I don’t forget things.” His lips press against the side of my neck. “But I can be distracted…”

“Ah,” I say with a shiver, “I don’t want to be the cause of a war with France or something.”

“We’re not at war with France.” Mycroft chuckles against my shoulder, and moves his hands down my back. “And this is about you, not me.”

“Hm?”

“It’s been nine days since we’ve had sex,” he clarifies. “Not for lack of trying, of course, but now that we have an opportunity, I’ve got to work. But you don’t, so I’m going to have sex with you, and then go to work.”

“And blow up the west coast of America by accident.”

“Gregory,” he sighs. “Please just allow me to indulge myself.”

“Fine, fine.” I lay back and let my arms flop to the side. “Have at me. But just snogging. No sex. I need to look at those files again before morning.”

“As you wish.” Mycroft straddles me, flipping his dressing gown out behind him. “So dramatic.”

Our lips meet, and I just melt. He kisses like no one else I’ve ever met. Slow and easy, but there’s no mistaking that it’s a prelude to pleasure. He’s devouring me, kissing me, whilst moving his hips in a lazy rhythm. I grunt at the delicious friction, but it’s not enough. I move my hands to his hips to get more, but he’s not having it. He pins my hands to my sides, and then his lips are breaking away to trail down my neck to my collarbone, where I love to be licked. He knows this, of course, and chuckles when I arch into him.

“Feels good.”

“Do tell,” he says with another nip to my neck. “Hedonist.”

“Bad influence.” I’m not hard yet, but I feel the burning kick up from a low simmer to a good roiling boil. I steady myself, and sigh. “Better stop now.”

He pulls back, and looks at me. “Hm… yes. Wouldn’t want you to shirk your responsibilities by falling into a post-orgasmic state, would we?” He presses a kiss to my forehead, and sits up. “Irresistible. I look forward to ravishing you thoroughly tomorrow.”

I smile at that, and hold out a hand so he can pull me up. “I am mad for you, Mycroft. In case you didn’t know.”

“There isn’t anything about you that I don’t know,” he says, pulling me up. “And I’m just as mad for you, as it were. I know I am not traditional about-“

My finger goes to his lips. “No. You’re so uniquely you, it’s perfect. I don’t think I’d be like this with anyone else – content to bring work home, and sit here with you, eating takeaway and just… being. I love that you understand it all.”

He blushes and tugs me against him. A kiss is pressed to my temple, and a hand is trailed along the back of my neck. “I have ten minutes before I must take my leave. Put your head in my lap, and relax, Gregory.”

I do as he says, and sigh as he fingers scratch and massage my scalp. “Perfect, Mycroft. Just perfect. Thanks for making time for our date night.”

“It is my pleasure. Always.”

And that’s enough for me.

***

 


End file.
